(Not A) Monster
by Skalidra
Summary: Damian has no warning when his world crashes down around him. Framed for a crime he didn't commit, disowned, his magic sealed within him, and cast into the prisons beneath his former family's palace. The only person who can help him escape is the prisoner in the cell across from him. Jason, a backlash freak-of-nature and an utter mystery.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome! So, this is a story I actually wrote for HC-Bingo. I decided to write a 25-in-1 story, which is taking all 25 prompts on the card and combining them into a single story. Yeah, it's crazy. It also _doesn't_ count as a 'real' bingo, so I decided fuck it, I'm not officially posting it as an HC-Bingo story. This damn thing is 9 chapters and 47k; it should count. (And yet...)

So, we're going to do prompts by chapter here. (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This one is home to: **Loss of Job** , **Branding** , **Mistaken Identity** , and **Assault**. (It also includes reference to death-of-an-unborn-child.)

* * *

He hardly cares when Nyssa, his mother's half-sister, slips back into their lives with a new husband and declares herself with child. There's the thought in the back of his mind, of course, that if it turns out to be a boy he might have to deal with it in some way. He is his grandfather's only current heir, but the thought of another does not particularly worry him. He is the eldest, and he has been trained to take over his grandfather's empire for his whole life, what could one infant possibly do to threaten that, even if it is does have a — technically — more lawful birth?

His mother may not have been married to his father, and may never have divulged exactly whose son he is to his grandfather, but Nyssa's husband is no one of importance or recognition. There's no advantage there.

Which is why it comes as an utter surprise when, two weeks after her arrival, he hears a commotion in the halls outside of his room. He's barely closed his book before there are three guards bursting into his room, hands already moving in the curls of spells to release magic. It bursts to life within the moment, and he only has time to draw a breath and begin to drop the book to cast his own when the bursts of light crash into him, slamming him back against the headboard with enough force to make his world black out for a moment. By the time his senses return there are hands dragging him forward, and he feels cold metal click into place around his throat and upper arms in quick succession, and far too late to do anything about it.

He does manage to bite back the gasp as the hot core of his power gets shut off behind walls as cold as the engraved, enchanted, metal locked around him. It's an awful, uncomfortable, _shocking_ feeling, but he holds back any response to it but to bare his teeth in a small snarl and pull against the guard's holds, raising his head to look the one _not_ holding one of his arms straight in the eyes.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demands, making sure his voice comes out with an edge of steel and fire. "What do you think you are doing?"

The guard looks just a bit unnerved, but no one releases him, which simply means that he hasn't scared them enough yet. "The Emperor has demanded your arrest and presence before him, my lord. Bound."

Which is all the warning he gets before his arms are being pulled behind him, and heavy metal cuffs are locking into place around his wrists. Not magical this time, just plain metal, but with the other bindings locking away his power they may as well be inescapable. They're certainly tight enough that he won't be slipping them without the right tools, or a key.

The far more worrisome part of this is that his grandfather has apparently ordered him arrested, and he cannot recall having _done_ anything. It would take a rather serious crime for his grandfather to order him, the singular heir to the kingdom apart from Nyssa's unborn child — assuming it is a boy — arrested and bound to be brought in for an audience. If he had done something wrong, his grandfather would have summoned him to a private meeting, and delivered some sort of suitable discipline. To bind and pull him in before an _audience_ suggests that he has done something terrible enough to condemn him in front of both court and family.

But he hasn't done _anything_.

"Why?" he demands.

The guards pull him to the door instead of answering, dragging him down the corridor outside. Not that he is resisting, but they seem determined to drag him instead of simply guiding anyway. That is also worrisome; it implies that the guards know whatever reason it is that he is being brought before his grandfather, and are either secure enough to believe that he won't be retaliating for this treatment, or are disgusted by whatever his apparent crime is and simply do not care for consequences.

He clenches his jaw for a second, studying the guards to see if he can get anything off of them, since they seem unwilling to speak with him, and he has nothing better to do on this enforced trip to his grandfather. What he can see isn't encouraging; defensive and slightly repulsed body language, which is rather impressive for his grandfather's elite guard. Not much disgusts them, not after the kind of shows of loyalty it takes to become one of them.

The silence is not particularly new, so he simply weathers it as well as the guards' disrespect as he is taken across the palace and to the throne room his grandfather holds court in. The thread of unease in the center of his chest grows a little stronger when he's guided to the larger, main entrance with its imposing, heavy double doors, and not one of the veiled side entrances that family usually enters by. Still, he holds his tongue and doesn't speak as the third guard pushes the doors open, and then he is pushed through.

It's late, past dark, but there's still quite a large collection of nobles and court members here. He can feel their gazes on him, and they're easier to read than the guards escorting him. Fear, hatred, revulsion…

He raises his gaze to the throne itself as he's pushed towards it, looking for some clue of what's happened. His grandfather is sitting in that throne, leaning to one side, and the expression on that face is one of steel and ice. Nothing good. His mother is standing to the left of that throne, and she's the same steel, though he can read the worry in her eyes probably better than anyone else in the room apart from his grandfather. To the right is Nyssa, sitting with her husband standing at her shoulder, and there is _fury_ on his face, and a sort of pained fury on hers. She's pale, and— and her clothing is stained with blood, quite a bit of it, though the origin is hidden underneath the arms she has crossed over her stomach.

An idea of what this might be starts to grow in the back of his mind.

He's pushed to his knees at the foot of the short flight of stairs leading up to the throne, and the guards step back to leave him relatively alone as he bows his head for a moment. The whispers of the court, behind him, grow, and though he can't quite make out what they're saying, the emotion behind the words is much easier. Shock. Anger. _Fear_ .

"Silence," his grandfather commands, and the room quiets in a heartbeat.

He raises his head, making sure his shoulders are straight and not an inch of his uncertainty is showing. "Grandfather," he says into the silence, "I would appreciate an explanation for this."

As much as he wants to, he doesn't pull against the cuffs locked around his wrists. This is not the place to betray weakness or fear, and if his grandfather has ordered him bound, he refuses to fight that. There's no quicker way to anger his grandfather than attempting to disobey orders or test the limits of them. He doubts this would be a good time to risk that anger.

Nyssa jerks, teeth showing and for a moment she looks _wild_ , before his grandfather raises a hand and stills her. Mostly.

"Damian," his grandfather starts, voice low and completely matching the steel and ice of his expression, "you have been accused of attacking Nyssa, resulting in the loss of her child."

His gaze snaps to Nyssa, to the blood on her clothes and the fury and the _grief_ in her gaze, and it feels like his blood freezes in his veins. His lungs constrict around the breath in him, and he has to fight not to let his eyes widen or the sudden fear in his chest show. Assaulting a family member, killing her unborn child, and getting _caught_ at it would certainly be enough to get him dragged before the court for a shortened version of a trial. The punishment for that would be…

Except that he didn't _do_ that.

"Do you have anything to say to that?" his grandfather demands.

He draws his gaze back, makes sure that his head is held high, and gathers enough confidence to answer, "I did not do this, Grandfather. Nyssa's—"

" _Liar_ ," she spits, and her voice is an ugly, broken, raging thing. "I broke your glamour, Nephew, I _broke it!_ It was _you!_ " Her voice rises, until his grandfather flicks a hand again in a command for silence.

His mother is very still, ramrod straight and wearing that mask of steel. He does his very best to imitate that himself, and not betray any of the rest of what he's feeling. Something here is very wrong. Nyssa's child is dead, apparently as an intended target, and the blame is falling on _him_ . She claims that she saw him, that she broke a glamour — implying that he had disguised himself as someone else — which either means that someone is _very_ good at glamours and could make it look like one broke to reveal him, or…

Or she's lying.

 _That_ worrying thought brings up the question, is this on purpose, or is she taking advantage of someone else's attack to frame him? It's not exactly a secret — at least among their family — that Nyssa would like him removed from the line of succession. But would she really be ruthless enough to kill her own unborn child to frame him for it, to get him out of the way?

It unnerves him a bit that he can't quite bring himself to say _no_ to that theory.

His grandfather's hand flicks down at him, gesturing for him to continue, and he draws his gaze up to meet those green eyes squarely. "Nyssa's child was no threat to me," he says plainly. "Even if it had been male, an _infant_ would be no threat to my position, Grandfather. I am not certain what exactly the details are of what I am supposed to have done," he glances over at Nyssa, "but frankly I am not _stupid_ enough to risk so much to get rid of such a small irritation, and if I made such plans I would not be foolish enough to get caught."

He bites back the urge to add that an assault is a very messy form of murder, especially with such an obvious eyewitness, and that poisoning Nyssa to kill the child in her would have been much more efficient and cleaner. While he's sure that his grandfather would appreciate the practicality of that, the court would not. He's known to be dangerous, and ruthless, but not _that_ sort of ruthless. Making clear that you can kill a man before he blinks is very different from saying that you'd poison a mother to kill her child.

His grandfather frowns just a touch as the court bursts back into whispers, and then looks to Nyssa. "Describe the attack."

Nyssa shivers — her husband's hand clenches down on her shoulder — and then gives a small nod, gaze lowered to the floor. "I was headed to my quarters. A guard approached me, saying I'd been summoned to speak with you, Father, so I turned back to accompany him. He waited until I was close and then put a knife in my stomach. He— He tried to do it again, but I cast and knocked him away. It was instinctual; I lashed out with my power, and in his efforts to put up a shield the glamour he was using shattered."

Her gaze rises from the floor, slow, damning, focusing on him.

"It was _Damian_ . He ran; left me to bleed out. I managed to— to get far enough to find you, Father. The healers saved me, but my child…" A sound comes from her throat, something broken and grieving, as her head falls and her shoulders curl inwards. "My child is _dead_ ."

The unease curls larger as he realizes she absolutely, without question, has the sympathy and support of every member of the court. He can tell by the sound of their whispering. He's the enemy in this room.

His grandfather's gaze is hard when it comes back to him. "Damian, where have you been for the last few hours?"

The realization comes sharp as a punch. "In my room," he answers honestly, _uselessly_ . "Reading."

"Alone?" He confirms the question with a small nod, and the slight frown on his grandfather's face gets a touch deeper. "Damian, do you have any defense at all?"

He stalls, mind whirring and trying to figure out _something_ he could use to prove his innocence. Nothing comes to mind. "Only to repeat what I have already said," he says, and then decides in a flash that he's not going to pander to the court, not when the alternative is being convicted of this. "I did not do this. It sounds poorly thought out and there would have been far easier and more efficient ways to kill an unborn child, Grandfather. Poison, for one. If I did plan to murder a child, and for some reason a clumsy attack like what I am being blamed for was the only way, I would not be enough of a fool to do it _myself_ . I cannot say what did occur but I can say that it was not _me_ ."

Judging by his grandfather's expression, that's not enough.

Especially not when Nyssa looks up and all but snarls, "I want him _dead_ , Father. Justice and vengeance for the life he took."

His mother takes a sharp step forward, moving for the first time, and snaps, "You will _not_ kill my child, Nyssa!"

"But he can kill mine?!"

" _Enough_ ," his grandfather snaps. "It is a serious crime, but the decision is _mine_ ."

Both of them settle back, and he loses the battle and swallows, trying to hold the gaze of his grandfather without revealing how much he's starting to worry. Murder of a family member, no alibi, and Nyssa sitting there with bloodstained clothes and playing every ounce for pity and sympathy? There aren't many ways that this could go well. His position shields him somewhat, but not from something like this.

Silence — apart from the court's whispering — for a long stretch of time, where the seconds drag, before his grandfather suddenly pushes up and stands from the throne. Those green eyes are cold, and from his peripherals he watches Nyssa's husband help her stand, listens to the whole court grow silent in preparation for his grandfather to deliver his sentence, whatever it is.

"Damian, I find you guilty of the murder of Nyssa's child." He holds his breath, watching his grandfather stare down at him with that frown. "You are disowned. I strip you of the name al Ghul, and strike you from all record of our family tree." His blood runs cold, and his world tunnels as his eyes widen. "Given the situation, your magic will also be sealed from you, so that you are no longer a threat to anyone of this family and will _never_ challenge it. Guards; take him to the dungeons and brand him. He'll be released once he's recovered enough to travel."

He hears the movement, but it's only once he's been wrenched to his feet that he finds the voice to cry, "Grandfather! I _did not do this!_ "

His mother looks stricken, stunned, and there's a sharp gleam of victory on Nyssa's face, but his grandfather's expression is fixed in the kind of dangerous, blank mask used on court members who haven't learned to keep their mouths shut . That expression has certainly never been aimed at _him_.

"I witnessed the glamour break myself, Damian, and you are _not_ my grandson any longer." A hint of a sneer, and his grandfather's voice lowers to say, slow and clear, "Make that mistake again and you will spend a much longer time in my dungeon than a mere week."

One hand flicks, and the guards start to drag him from the room. He wants to protest, to shout, to _beg_ that this not happen, but there's no chance of his grandfather reversing what's already been decided. His fate is sealed, as his magic will be, and that is a fact set in stone that he cannot hope to break, not without evidence or an alibi he doesn't have.

Nyssa's certainly gotten what she wanted, because this _has_ to have been planned. It would take masterful timing for someone to make the casting of a glamour look like the breaking of another, and to fool his grandfather into actually believing it. This is the plan of someone ruthless, powerful, and skilled, or at least someone with minions or hired mercenaries that have those traits. Certainly worthy of his family, and it would be something that would impress him, if he wasn't the target. As it is, any hint of being impressed is drowned underneath the fear eating its way up his throat.

Being disowned is one thing; he could recover from that. He has other connections, he's been trained and taught all his life to lead and to survive, and he could have created a life away from the rest of his family. Having his promised inheritance wrenched from him is frustrating, but it wouldn't have been enough to end him. He has power, skill, and ruthlessness himself, and he could have ripped the title from Nyssa's child if he had to.

However, having his power sealed is _permanent_ , and it will mark him as a serious criminal. The brands can be hidden, with work, but the combination of that as well as the fact that his face is fairly well known ruins all chance of him having a life anywhere but far outside the boundaries of his grandfather's empire. The sealing of his magic won't quite make him helpless, but it will put him at a disadvantage against everyone else with enough power and the training to use it as a weapon, which is a fair portion of the world.

Sealing a criminal's power is _very_ rare, because at that point, why not simply kill the offender and get it over with? Even imprisoned criminals generally have their power bound with the sort of restraints currently around his throat and arms, not permanently sealed.

Approaching the dungeons has never scared him like it does now, but then, he's never been convicted of murder before either. He's been down in these cells to study prisoners, or be trained in interrogation or torture, or such similar lessons, but he's never been brought down here to be _punished_ . The discipline he's earned over the years has always been relatively minor, and nothing that ever required a cell. His mother would never have allowed things to become this serious if there were any other option.

He stays obedient as he's pulled inside, making sure not to struggle because he's only going to get one single shot at any kind of resistance. His legs aren't bound, at least, and he's been trained to fight since he was a child. Three guards is not necessarily a problem, if he can get this right. A fourth joining them — the current guard stationed in the dungeon, with the keys — makes it a little trickier. If he can get a hold of the keys, that frees him from the cuffs and gets him out of here, but usually guards set primarily in the dungeons are the ones specifically talented in restraining magic, in case of any attempts at escape. Four is pushing the limits of what he can handle too, especially without his own magic.

One of the original guards stays at the front of the dungeon as the others guide him towards the back of the row of cells, past other occupied ones and then a long row of empty ones on either side. He's dragged inside the very last one on the right, and pushed down to his knees in the center of the room. He stays utterly still — both to lure them into false security and for the safety of his own skin — as one of them draws a knife and sets to work slicing apart the thin fabric of the sleeveless shirt he'd been wearing before all of this even began.

Distantly, he recognizes that this is in preparation to brand him. Sealing requires a complicated set of runes on both the chest and back, backed up with magic to make them permanent, so simply taking a knife to change them won't do anything. They'll need his chest bare, and if he remembers the size of the branding iron correctly — he hasn't seen it in many years — part of it will stretch onto the backs of his shoulders, so his wrists will need to be freed at some point so that they can make sure that the brand is applied cleanly.

That will be the only chance he has. The moment where his wrists are free, before they're restrained in some other way, will be the only time that he'll have a chance of escaping. It's a shame that they know that too. If it's possible, it will be very hard.

The shirt falls away from him, and he hears the approaching clatter of metal, managing to turn his head just enough to catch a glimpse of that fourth guard returning, holding two brands in one arm, slipping through the open door of the cell. He's pulled to his feet, and metal brushes against the skin of one of his wrists. He tries not to betray reaction as hands close hard around his arms, and then there's the metallic click of the cuffs on his wrists coming off.

He jerks into action, lunging forward to drag the guards holding him as he twists and kicks a foot backwards. He hits solid flesh, and hears the grunt of pain and the impact of that dungeon-guard against the cell's bars. They yank at his arms, dragging them up and off to the sides, hands as unyielding as the steel they just took off of him. He pulls, tries to kick, but these are his grandfather's elite guard and they are at least skilled enough to dodge what he's capable of doing while held like this.

One of the two guards behind him kicks the back of his knee at the same time the two holding him twist his arms to force him down, and he curses, struggles, but it's not enough to stop them from slamming him down against the floor and pinning him there. Heavy weight settles across the back of his legs as well, but that's all the warning that he gets before metal presses firmly against his back.

For a moment it feels shockingly _cold_ , like patterns of ice from his shoulders to midway down his back.

Then the pain hits, the sizzle of his own skin reaches his ears and nose, and he _screams_ . He's held too firmly to do any more than twist his head and grit his teeth, eyes wide and every instinct telling him to run, to escape, to _get away_ . It's _agony_ on a level he hasn't felt before, and he loses track of exactly what else is happening around him. The sole focus of his world is the pain of his back, and he can only struggle to breathe and try in vain to endure it.

He doesn't know when the brand is pulled away, only that suddenly he's being pulled to his feet, hanging almost entirely limp in the grip of too many hands and being carried backwards. Metal closes around his wrists again, and then his back is pressed to metal and he gasps, jerking and crying out. It doesn't stop them, and it takes him too long to realize that he's being restrained against the metal bars of the cell, held up and back by hands on his arms.

It takes him even longer to remember that there's a second brand, and _that_ drags his eyes open. The sight of one of the guards standing in front of him, holding the handle of the brand in one hand and heating it with the other — fingers conjuring flame — is enough to get him to struggle again, not that it does anything. His breath comes ragged, fast, and there is a complete _lack_ of pity in the guard's gaze when he steps forward. The brand is glowing, and he gives a wordless, high sound of fear and protest as it's held up.

Then it's pressing against his chest, held still despite his fighting. There's the same moment of cold before the pain. He can't help screaming again, back arching what little it's allowed and his head flinging back and cracking into one of the bars. It feels like it should help, being partially stunned, but it doesn't.

The moment he's released he collapses, sliding down the bars to the floor. His wrists are still tied to the metal, arms spread wide, but with no one holding him he's leaned forward, and that at least gets his back away from it. His head hangs, gaze aimed blindly at the floor, washes of cold sliding over him like little douses of ice water, and underneath it all there's just the _pain_ .

Hands touch his arms, then his throat, and dimly he realizes that the magical restraints are being taken off. He waits for half a moment out of a useless hope that his magic will return, but he feels as hollow and cold as before.

The door shuts, and he fades from consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

He has no clue how long he is unconscious, only that when he does regain some level of consciousness it is a half-life, aware enough to register the pain written into his bones and the vague presence of others, but no more. He is fairly certain no one directly touches or speaks to him, but that could be incorrect.

At some point he feels the tingle of magic down his spine, and the sensation is enough of a shock to drag him to consciousness again. He starts, and then hisses pain as that sends ice and fire cascading over his torso in waves. Fingers touch his cheek, sliding over his skin, and he opens his eyes with some difficulty, looking up.

"Mother?" he whispers, his voice coming out rough in the familiar way of someone who's damaged their throat screaming. He does not recall ever having heard that tone from himself, though he has from many other people.

His mother's fingers cup his cheek, thumb brushing over it with a tenderness he has not felt in… Not since he was a child.

"Oh, my son," she murmurs back, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

His breath catches, and he can't help saying, "I didn't do this. Mother, you _know_ I wouldn't—"

"Hush." There's pain in her eyes, again more obvious than he has seen in a very long time, and her hand leaves his cheek and moves down his arm. He hears the rattle of keys, and his wrist comes free of the cuff. A moment, and then she's freed the other one as well. "What you did or did not do no longer matters, Damian. It is too late for that."

All of it comes back in a sickening rush. The brands, the pain, the— the _permanent_ removal of his magic. He shudders and she gathers him into her arms, carefully not touching his wounds even as she holds him, guiding his head to rest at her shoulder. He closes his eyes, feels the threatening prickle of tears but _refuses_ to let them fall. He may have been framed, he may have been crippled, but he is not _weak_. Not even now.

"What now?" he asks against her shoulder, keeping his voice as low as he can manage it and still believe she has a chance of hearing. If he knows his mother at _all_ , he knows she has some form of plan. At the very least, a next step.

She runs her fingers through his hair, tilting, and speaks directly into his ear, barely above a breath. "You must escape. My sister is not satisfied with imprisoning you, she plans to have you killed while you are still locked down here. I have the key; get out however you must."

He feels the press of metal against his side, slipping down and then tucked beneath the fold of his thigh. It occurs to him that his mother is _not_ playing; the punishment she'd invite if caught with that key, let alone giving it to him, is terrible to even consider. His gra— Ra's' wrath is not a thing that should be challenged.

He shivers, and then finds the breath to say, "Mother, I am in _no_ condition to attempt any kind of escape. I have nowhere to _go_."

"Go to your father," she whispers. "He may be a fool but he will keep you safe. As for the rest…" She pauses, and then carefully presses a kiss to his temple and breathes, "There is a man in the cell across from you; convince him to join your escape and use him to leave this place, my son. As soon as you can."

"If I cannot?" he dares to ask. The thought is not a welcome one, but it is a realistic one. He is injured, he's been publicly branded as one of the worst kind of criminals, and his hopes of convincing some other criminal are probably not all that high. Even apart from the fact that whoever is in that cell they are _also_ a criminal, and one actually guilty of whatever crime they were sentenced for, presumably.

His mother holds him a bit tighter. "I will do my best to protect you," she promises, and then pulls away. Her voice rises as she stands. "I will have someone sent down to treat you, Damian. Get some rest, my son."

He doesn't try to answer, isn't even sure what he would say if he tried and the weight of the key is heavy beneath his thigh. He attempts to just breathe, and not watch as his mother leaves the cell and it shuts behind her with the heavy thud and clunk of a lock he couldn't normally escape. Escape is a tempting thought, but he's just not sure… There are too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. If he is caught trying to escape, he will be put to death, he has no illusions there. However, he also believes his mother's information. If she has reason to believe that Nyssa intends to kill him, then it is more than likely true. So he _must_ go.

Then the first step is as his mother suggested: convince whoever is in that other cell to aid him in his escape.

Carefully, and slowly, he shifts away from the bars of his cell enough to turn around. He keeps the key held between his thigh and calf, and that takes enough of his attention, along with managing the agony of how any movement pulls at his new brands, that when he's turned around he ends up leaning against the bars with his eyes squeezed shut and his breath coming hard. It takes him too long to open his eyes again, and then raise his gaze to the cell across the way.

The man in it is lying on the cot provided, back to the wall and a book in his hands, ignoring him. His gaze slips from the engraved metal restraints around the man's upper arms and throat, then up to the white shock of hair hanging above the left side of his forehead.

 _Backlash_.

He almost recoils, if it weren't for the fact that the second he tenses _pain_ sings through his nerves. He slumps a little more against the bars, squeezing his eyes shut for another moment as he tries to think _why_ his mother would possibly believe the abomination across from him could be persuaded to help him escape.

Backlashes are violent, dangerous, unstable creatures with too much power and little to no control over it; they _belong_ in cells like these. That, or buried beneath the ground where they can do no harm to anyone else. There have been cases of entire villages falling to these abominations and their inability to control the magic they're born with, and hundreds of deaths and injuries caused by them. That much power should only be in the hands of someone trained to control it, and backlashes _cannot_ learn.

Then again, this backlash does seem to be the only other prisoner close enough to speak with at a volume that no guards will hear, and magical ineptitude aside, he certainly looks like a physically strong candidate. He has on a simple black vest and loose pants for clothing, comfortable but simple enough that it's unlikely he'll have any kind of weapons stored within them, and it leaves on display the hard muscle of his arms and some of his chest. If the backlash has any sort of actual combat training, he could be fairly useful. Even if the prisoner doesn't, he's large and strong enough to function as a shield.

He does not recall ever having heard of this particular prisoner before, but given the small collection of books inside the cell, and the distinctly 'lived in' appearance, he finds it likely that the man has been here awhile.

"Is there a reason you're staring?" the backlash suddenly asks, blue-green eyes flicking up to pin him to his spot.

"There is not much else to look at," he points out, and wishes his voice did not sound quite as weak as it does.

The backlash's mouth curls into a small snarl. " _Find_ something else; I'm not your freak show."

He longs to snap back, but practicality wins over desire. "We are neighbors," he says instead, "should we not make some attempt at knowing each other?"

He gets a snort, and the backlash's gaze drops back to the book as he flicks to the next page. "Why? You'll be out of here soon enough, and I'll still be locked in; why the fuck should I care about getting to know you before then?"

"How do you know that?" he demands, mind stalling out on the fact that this prisoner somehow knows what's to be done with him.

At least, that's what he thinks until the man looks up, pinning him with a look that implies he's an absolute moron. "You don't brand someone and then just leave them sitting in a dungeon; there's no point. Branding's tricky and restraints—" he nods towards the cuff around one upper arm "—work just as well. You got any other stupid questions?"

As it happens… "Do you not simply wish to talk, to ease the silence?"

The backlash's gaze flickers off to the side, pain showing for just a fraction of a second before it shutters away and the man's gaze falls to the book again. "If you don't get used to conversation, you can't miss it. I've been doing pretty good about not getting used to it so far, thanks. Wouldn't want to break the streak."

He pauses for a moment, trying to make his exhausted brain work well enough to think of a way to convince the man he's worth listening to, _without_ playing his entire hand right away. Whoever this is, he's clearly fairly accustomed to life down here, and he's behaved well enough that the guards have given him extra bits of comfort to encourage that. Books, fairly clean clothes, and what looks like an extra blanket. That's in addition to the fact that the man is clean shaven, apart from some faint stubble, and has a fairly neat hairstyle. He can't decide which is more unlikely, that the guards gave the man a blade to shave with, or that they're doing it for him.

He taps his fingers against the bars of the cell, twists his head to look as far down the corridor outside as he can to reassure himself there is no one else within earshot. As far as he can see, they're alone.

"What if I could ensure that you would not need to grow reaccustomed to silence?" he says, probably just loud enough for the man to hear.

That gets those blue-green eyes to rise again, looking at him over the top of the book. There's a sharp kind of interest to his expression, but the man's voice is guarded and low when he answers, "I was getting the impression you didn't have any kind of power here anymore, Damian al Ghul." His eyes must widen a little bit, because the backlash snorts. "Yeah, I know who you are."

"Were," he corrects, reluctantly. "I was stripped of my title and family."

"Does it still count as a royal fuck up if you're not royalty anymore?" the backlash says, with a vicious kind of satisfaction to his words. "Or did you just commonly fuck up? Must have done something pretty unforgivable, for you to get branded and sealed. I bet that name you don't have is the only reason you're still breathing."

He grits his teeth, wanting to rise to the provocation, to protest his innocence, to _snarl_ at the man that he is anything but common, but he forces himself to swallow it away. The man, however rude, however cruel, however much of a _freak_ of nature, is his only current way out of here. He has to control himself, or risk losing that way out. There's no way he can escape this dungeon with the agony that moving currently causes him; he _needs_ someone strong enough to help.

"What I have or have not done is of no importance," he manages to say, with only a little bit of his irritation leaking into his words. "If you are interested in that promise, I can fulfill it. In exchange for some assistance."

The man flips the page of his book, still watching him. "Might be. What sort?"

"Nothing more than a little physical work." He forces himself to straighten up a bit from the bars, to reach down and slip the key out from underneath his thigh, flashing just enough of it to watch the man's gaze sharpen. "I know the palace, I know the surrounding area."

"I know the cells," the backlash counters. "Underneath the back right corner of the cot there's a loose stone; put that away before you get caught with it."

He looks back into his cell, across the rough stone floor and the distance of what feels a bit like miles, given how much pain moving currently causes him. The thought of attempting to drag himself over there, pull up the cot, and pry loose whatever stone is out of place is… daunting. It may just be a symptom of his injuries, but there is a crazier idea taking hold in his mind. Risky, perhaps, but certainly far less painful, and perhaps even just the edge needed to push the backlash across from him to really agree to help.

He turns back to the other man, twists to peer as far down the corridor as he can and confirm no one is within sight, and then takes just half a moment to breathe in and brace himself. Then, before he can talk himself out of it again, he judges the distance and throws the key across the corridor and through the bars of the backlash's cell. The motion _hurts_ , but his aim is true.

The man jerks, reaches out and snatches the key from the air as if on automatic, before staring down at it in shock. "Are you _insane?_ " the man hisses, quickly pushing the key down beneath the nearly flat pillow he has.

He manages something like a smirk, letting himself rest against the bars again. "It is in your hands now, neighbor. Whatever you choose to do."

The man glares at him, snapping the book shut and getting off the bed in a fluid slide of movement. "Why do I even need you then?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Unless you somehow have intimate knowledge of the palace's guard schedules and layout, you will never make it past the walls. I know ways out that even the guards do not know; I know how to slip past them."

A harsh snort, before the backlash scrapes a hand back through his own hair with clear frustration. "Fuck, you _are_ insane." Blue-green eyes look back down at him, sharp and considering, before there's a second snort. "You're also probably right. Alright, Damian; when?"

"As soon as is feasible," he answers, "when the opportunity arises." The man shakes his head, turns away and paces to the other side of the cell, and it finally occurs to him to ask, "What is your name?"

The man stops, facing away from him, and is silent for a long moment. Then he says over his shoulder, "Jason."

Manners somehow make it to the forefront of his mind despite his exhaustion, and the pain present in every breath and twitch. "It is good to meet you, Jason."

"Liar," the backlash says, voice even quieter for a moment. Then Jason turns around, looking at him head on once again. "Why are you trying to get out? You'll be released sometime soon anyway; isn't that good enough? Why take all this risk? Why even _involve_ me?"

"I have been informed that my aunt is going to attempt to have me murdered while I am trapped down here. Understandably, I would rather avoid that, so I cannot afford to wait until I am healed and released. As—" He has to pause, swallow and look down at the stone beneath them. "As _unpleasant_ as this new life may turn out to be, it is still preferable to being dead."

Another moment of silence, before an almost inaudible, "Yeah, been there." He looks up, but whatever Jason was feeling it's been locked away behind a mask that is equal parts steel and anger. "Your mother had the right idea, you know. Get some rest. I don't want you completely useless when this actually happens."

He turns his head to look at the cot again, winces, and then takes a moment to brace himself before he painstakingly starts to move towards it. Even crawling is difficult, and that is about as far as he can go; standing would take more strength than he is currently capable of. It takes him far longer than he would like, but he does eventually reach the cot. Though the brands give him little choice but to lie carefully along one side, which is not entirely comfortable even without the fact that he is still in so much pain; worse, now that he's aggravated it by moving.

He still refuses to waste thoughts on wishing for anything better. He has not yet sunk that low.

—

Despite the pain, his exhaustion makes it easy to sleep, even if it is fitful. He does not know how much time passes before he's fully woken again, by the servant sent down to treat the brands, but he does feel moderately better afterwards. He's wary of the servant, and even more wary of the mixture of herbs she wants him to eat to help deal with the pain, until she leans in and says one of the specific phrases his mother and he have agreed upon to signify trust. Then he submits to the treatment, and eats the herbs without complaint even though they are painfully bitter upon his tongue.

With the possibility of glamours, even as well as both of them are trained, it is difficult to be too careful.

He keeps his gaze away from Jason's cell, apart from occasional glances that confirm that the backlash is lying still on his cot, sleeping as far as he can tell. If the servant questions those glances, she doesn't say anything. In fact, she doesn't say much of anything to him, apart from what's necessary. She wraps his chest, back, and the affected parts of his shoulders with bandages, and by the time she's finished the herbs have just started to take effect. He appreciates the faint numbness that eases the pain, but less so the bit of drowsiness that comes with it.

She leaves without a word, and he doesn't attempt to make her speak. It's quiet, and out of lack of anything better to do — given the fact that Jason is sleeping — he moves back over to his cot and attempts to get a bit more rest. He's going to need every inch of energy he can manage, if he wishes to escape these dungeons as well as get away from the inevitable hunt that will follow.

His father is… It will be safe, he trusts his mother on that despite never having met the man, but it is a long journey to get to where his mother has previously told him that his father lives. A long, difficult journey, and the chance he will be greeted kindly at first is negligible.

He does not believe his father even knows that they are related; his mother kept the information as contained as possible. She only told him because she thought he may need to know someday, be that to use as a weapon or to seek sanctuary. The latter was vastly more unlikely, and yet here he is preparing to do just that.

Bruce Wayne, leader of the rebels, who vex his former grandfather at every turn. Smaller things mostly, supplies stolen and redistributed without a trace, armies sabotaged, hundreds of small acts of defiance that tax his resources and his patience. He's learned quite a bit about them, but the knowledge has always sat heavy in his head that he _knew_ where they were based, and the withholding of that information was one of the only things that stood between them and their destruction.

He's considered giving that information a hundred times, but never did. Now, he's thankful for that.

He's eventually woken by footsteps, heavy and confident, and slides his eyes open before he considers moving. It's two guards, and both of them go to Jason's cell and unlock it. One is carrying a couple things he can't quite see, and Jason is already standing, hands held open and to the sides and a small, crooked grin on his face.

"Hey, guys."

Jason spins in a slow circle without prompting, and then sinks down to his knees, hands coming up to lace behind his neck. One guard grips those laced together hands, as the one carrying the things sets them down in front of Jason and then steps back. It's a bit strange to realize that it's everything necessary to shave; a mirror, water in a small bowl, and a small blade. His heart jumps a bit, and he pushes up from his cot to watch.

The guard holding Jason's hands lets go, stepping back, and Jason settles more firmly back on his feet and reaches down to angle the mirror a bit better. "How's your wife?" Jason asks, with a glance up towards the guard in front of him and that same grin.

To his surprise, the guard answers, "Good. She just got a job inside the palace, we're getting quarters in here too."

"Nice," Jason comments, picking up the blade and dipping it into the water. The backlash's gaze slips past the guard, to him, and the grin slips for a second. "Did you have to give me a neighbor?"

The guard twists, looking back at him, and he sees Jason's fingers curl more firmly around the blade's hilt. "He'll be gone soon en—"

Jason is _fast_ , standing and spinning in a single movement, and the distance is judged _perfectly_ because the blade goes right across the second guard's throat and he's still turning, going after the guard just starting to turn back towards him. There's half a moment of panic, the start of hand gestures as the guard jerks away and tries to cast all at the same time, but it's too late to stop Jason. The blade sinks home beneath the guard's chin, and he thinks he's about to have to join Jason in running for their lives. Someone will _hear_.

But then Jason's head turns, other hand lashing out and grabbing the front of the uniform of the guard still bleeding out before he can fall. The hand holding the blade lets go, grabs the same on the other guard, and then Jason slowly, carefully, sinks down and lays both guards on the floor with hardly a sound. He stares, sort of shocked at the sheer _effectiveness_ of it, at how precisely it was all done. Distracting the guards with him to start with, and then the grace of the actual strike, and finally ensuring that neither guard fell and made enough noise to alert any others. Not to mention the _strength_ it takes to hold the dead weight of a person with a single arm.

Jason calmly removes the blade, wiping it off and then pilfering the keys from one guard's belt, fingers linked between them to make sure they don't rattle. "Guess I don't need your key," comes the comment, as Jason tugs the boots off the guards, looking entirely unaffected by the deaths. "You ready to get out of here?"

He pushes up off of his cot, standing as Jason tugs on one pair of boots and then backtracks to grab a bundle of cloth that looks like a spare version of the top he's wearing. That gets tucked underneath his arm along with the second pair of boots, before he heads for the door of the cell, circling around the two bodies on the floor, and the accompanying pools slowly forming around them.

"Could you have done that at any time?" he asks quietly, as Jason unlocks the cell door and slips out, taking one glance down the corridor before crossing to his cell.

"Yes," Jason answers plainly, opening his door. "No reason to. Might not have gotten out of the city in time, and it's not so bad in here." Jason slips into his cell, handing him the second pair of boots and the shirt. "Here."

The boots are a bit loose, and the shirt is _definitely_ loose — he does not often feel _small_ next to people, not since his growth spurt left him just under six feet tall — but does not threaten to fall off of him, so it is good enough. It exposes more of his bandages than he is comfortable with, but until they get a chance to find more suitable clothing this will have to do. He laces the boots as tightly as he can to ensure they won't hinder any attempt to run, and then Jason wordlessly grips his arm and pulls him back to his feet, apparently not willing to wait for him to more slowly rise.

"I'm assuming we have to get out of this place before we can use any of your secret exits?" is the next question, as Jason's fingers linger on his arm as if ready to steady him. He does not appreciate the silent comment on his current weakness, but that does not mean that Jason is wrong about it, though he will certainly not be saying that outloud.

"That is correct," he admits. "We will need to leave the dungeons."

"Could be worse," Jason breathes, mostly to himself. "Two guards here, two at the entrance. They come down here at the start of their shift; we've got about five minutes before the others think something might be wrong, and a couple hours after that before anyone is supposed to come down here; that'll be breakfast. That enough time for you to get us far enough away?"

"That shall work fine." Jason steps away from him, crosses back over to the other cell and crouches down by the two guards, reaching out to pat them down for other weapons. He gets to the door of his cell, looking down the corridor — no one in sight; they're in the depths, around a corner from the entrance to the dungeon — before grudgingly admitting, "I will be of little physical help."

"Never would have guessed," Jason says, with a snort. He scowls, as Jason stands up holding two longer knives, apparently having decided to forgo both the swords as well as the original, smaller knife. One blade gets raised, flipped into the air and caught again. "Stay behind me; I'll handle the guards."

Jason comes back out as he does, heading out of the dungeon on careful, nearly silent footsteps. He follows, studying the way Jason moves with both confusion and a reluctant kind of respect. It's practiced, skilled. Perhaps… Perhaps he should have questioned exactly who his mystery neighbor was before offering this way out. Then again, what does he care what it is that he unleashes on this kingdom, as long as he is not caught in the wake of it?

Jason slows towards the end of the corridor, crouching low and peeking around just the very edge of it. Then, in the next breath, he's edging farther and then _bursting_ into motion. Around the corner and _gone_ , and he speeds up as much as he can manage to get to the corner and step around it. Jason's halfway down it, and the guards at the far table are jerking to their feet, already casting. He sucks a sharp breath in at the bursts of light made solid, almost silver in color, and how they lash out towards Jason's sprinting form.

For a moment it looks certain that they'll hit, and then Jason is sliding down, legs going out from under him and he _skids_ beneath the light, one arm snapping out and throwing a blade that finds a home in the eye of the guard on the right. Like with the two in the cell Jason's still moving, pushing up on his other arm and getting back to his feet, slowing for just a moment as he rebalances before he's lunging again. The remaining guard snarls, casting with one hand while drawing an almost identical knife with the other, and then Jason's crashing into him. The knives clash with a ring of metal, and Jason's shoulder slams into the guard's chest, knocking him back a few steps.

He _almost_ thinks that the guard's cast is going to go off in time, until Jason winds up and _slams_ a forward kick into the man's gut. There's a rush of expelled air, the guard crashes back into the table, and the almost-completed cast fizzles out with a faint spark from the man's fingertips.

Jason pushes forward, batting aside the desperate slash of the knife at his head like it's nothing — bad angle, not much force behind the strike anyway — before slashing open the guard's throat. He steps back, lets the guard's own weight send him sliding to the floor as he chokes, fingers releasing the knife.

By the time he's gotten down the corridor Jason is collecting knives, stealing the belt off one guard and buckling it around his own waist, along with the sheath and sword hanging on one side. There's a spot for one knife too, and he puts that away and keeps a second held in his hand. He draws even, looking at the guards — the one with the cut throat will be alive for minutes longer, if that — and then back at Jason.

"I was not aware I had freed some sort of… assassin."

Jason snorts, crossing to the exit and pressing an ear to it, eyes closing. "What, you thought I was just going to be some kind of meat shield or something?"

He leans down, pilfering one of the knives for his own use since he has no desire to be entirely defenseless, even if his options are very limited. "The thought crossed my mind," he admits. "Where did you learn any of this? There cannot have been many who would teach…" He trails off, unable to quite think of a way to phrase the end of that sentence without it being an insult.

Jason's eyes open but they're narrowed as they look back at him, his accomplice's mouth set in a thin line. "Go on. _Backlash_ , that's the word you were looking for, right? You're right, there weren't, and yet here I am." Jason snorts again, turning back to the door. "You think I care about your words?"

He chews over that for a moment, as he crosses the room to Jason, and then answers, "No. I imagine you would not be alive if you were not used to the disgust and fear of others by now; I am not certain I have ever seen a backlash as old as you before."

Jason grunts, and then pushes the door open. A look in either direction, before he's being beckoned forward. "Your turn, Damian. Get us out of here."


	3. Chapter 3

Getting out of the palace is almost laughably easy. The guards patrol as expected, and once he's guided Jason down into one of the secret tunnels beneath the palace — created for the escape of the royal family, given an emergency, and known only to the members of his family — there's nothing to stand in their way anymore. He still finds it difficult to move particularly well, but for some reason Jason stays at his side instead of leaving him behind, blade in one hand and the other occasionally silently reaching out to give him a bit of support whenever his breath catches or his steps falter.

He does not acknowledge the help — it is not _necessary_ — but Jason doesn't either, so he allows it to slide. It's little more than passing anyway; minor touches to the small of his back or beneath one arm to make certain he's stable before they fall away again.

The passage lets out past the walls of the palace, in a deserted, dead-end corner at the outskirts of the city. It was, after all, designed to get them as far out as necessary to escape, not to leave them stranded in a pillaged city and likely to draw attention on the way out. There are others that let out closer in, but most are like this one. He knows them all by heart, as well as the fastest routes out of the city itself once on the outskirts. There is, after all, still the outer wall to get past. That one they'll have to traverse a bit quicker, before their escape is discovered and the alarms rung.

But before that, they'll need something more concealing than the prisoner clothes they're wearing. Cloaks and longer shirts, ideally. Jason's magical restraints will need to be covered, and the bandages for his brand can't show either. Not that he has any intention of actually staying with Jason for more than the short amount of time required to steal that clothing. Jason is useful enough as defense, but he does not trust the man even an inch, and backlashes are easy to spot when they're marked as obviously as Jason is anyway, so they're hardly good companions for traveling under the radar. He has no desire to endanger himself; he would rather risk traveling on his own, despite his wounds, than having such an obvious target with him.

Jason shuts the passage smoothly, leaving only a very faint hint of a line where the stone of the door blends in against the wall it's hidden in. It grates a bit, but Jason seems to have no trouble pushing it closed, despite that. It's moderately impressive, given that he knows how heavy those stone doors are, having tested them himself when his mother was making sure he knew all the ways in and out of the palace.

"We'll need something to disguise ourselves," Jason says, voicing what he's been thinking. "We can't exactly go walking out of the city like this."

"Yes," he agrees, studying the surrounding buildings and the distance to the wall to figure out exactly where they are and what's around them. Houses, mainly. It's early morning, about an hour before dawn. The workers will be heading out soon, as will those who make their living off of traveling for trade. That won't be a difficult crowd to blend into.

"Supplies too, if you want to make the next town over without having to detour to an oasis." Jason comes to stand at his side, arms crossing as he squints towards the wall. "It's only half a day, but that's still enough that we'll both need water, especially since you'll be moving slower. Maybe up that to most of a day, depending how quickly you tire out."

He glares, despite the valid point being made. "I am _perfectly_ capable of walking that distance. I am injured, not a _cripple_."

Jason's, "Uh-huh," doesn't sound even slightly convinced. "Point still stands. We need clothes, water, and travelling food would be good too. Dried meat or something; stuff we can eat while walking. We should get into one of these houses and see how much we can find. Bit of coin would be good too, even though it's kinda shitty to steal from people that need it."

"But murdering guards is acceptable?" he snaps, and then seizes the available chance for what it is. "Things will go faster if we choose separate homes; I will meet you back here." Once he's out of sight he can disappear into the city, which will save him the trouble of having to slip Jason somehow later on.

He doesn't get more than a step before Jason shifts and suddenly _strikes_ , lashing out at his back. He jerks forward, avoids the lightning-fast attack by a hair, but his muscles spasm at the sudden movement and he gasps at the pain and staggers, nearly falling. He turns as fast as he can, slightly bent but at least still on his feet, teeth bared and gripping the one blade he has tightly enough the hilt bites into his palm. It's no match against what Jason's collected, and given what he has seen of Jason's skill he cannot _hope_ to beat him while he's so badly hurt, but he will _not_ make it easy.

But Jason is just standing there, arms crossing again and one eyebrow raised. "And what do you think you're going to do if someone spots you?" The question comes out flat, and then Jason's voice turns mockingly sarcastic when he adds, "Fall over? A _peasant_ could kill you right now if they were brave enough to ignore that blade. We're safer together than separate."

"You are a walking target," he spits back. "Until you have something to cover your hair and those restraints, I am _not_ safer with you than without. I can be missed; you cannot."

Jason's eyes narrow, and that voice lowers to a darker growl. "That sounds like a really terrible attempt to disguise a plan to ditch me, _Damian_. You got any idea why I'm getting that impression?"

He scoffs. "Perhaps your years imprisoned left you paranoid as well as cursed."

A step closer, teeth flashing in a snarl. "You're _not_ leaving me behind."

"I do not recall promising you _anything_ once we had escaped the dungeons, Jason. What I do is my own business, not yours."

He steps away to widen the distance between them again, keeping an eye on Jason as he starts to turn half away, before Jason threatens, "I'll bring your whole _world_ crashing down on you."

That is enough to make him turn back, to meet Jason's narrowed eyes with a sneer. "You have _nothing_ on me. If you report me to the guards, or my old family, you will be executed as well. Ra's al Ghul does not tolerate the murder of those in his service."

"I know who your father is." He freezes in place, and Jason's small snarl lifts into a smirk. There's a vicious sort of satisfaction to his tone when he spits, "Now, what do you think Ra's al Ghul would do to your mother if he knew that she had a child from his greatest enemy, and let it be raised as his _heir?_ I'd bet he doesn't tolerate treason real well either, and I'd bet that he'd be willing to put me right back in my cell for a piece of information like that, at the _least_."

His breath comes sharp, mind spinning uselessly in his head as he stares. He can only manage to ask, "How do you know that? That information is—"

"Not as secret as you'd like." Jason's smirk falls away. "You stay with me, or the list of people who know it suddenly gets a lot bigger."

He grits his teeth together. Despite how his mind is struggling, he can't find any other option. He won't risk his mother's life, and Jason is right, she _will_ be killed — at the least — if Ra's finds out that his father is Bruce Wayne, the leader of the resistance. A deliberate deception like that is not one that will be forgiven. Jason has already proven willing to kill without remorse, so he must assume that the backlash will carry his threat out if crossed, and… and he is in no condition to attempt killing him. Even if he weren't injured, he isn't entirely certain that he could kill Jason without use of his magic. Whoever taught him, they were _very_ skilled.

He has no other choice but to accept Jason's terms, at least until something about their circumstances changes.

"Fine," he grinds out. "I will stay. For now."

"Good," Jason snaps back, and then strides right past him, heading to the corner of their dead end to look around it.

"Why are you demanding this?" he asks, making no effort to disguise his anger or frustration. "I will be hunted by more people than you by a large margin; why would you _want_ to stay beside me?"

"What I do is my own business, not yours," Jason mocks, with the flash of a sneer back at him. "Come on; we haven't got time to waste. If the alarms go out while we're still inside the walls things are going to go south _real_ quick."

"I am _aware_ ," he almost snarls, but he follows anyway.

* * *

He starts to consider that maybe Jason truly _is_ an assassin when his forced companion finds an empty house and then begins to pick the lock, pulling something thin and metal out to do it that he doesn't remember ever seeing him pick up. He follows, keeping pace easily enough due to the caution that Jason is moving with, when the lock pops open and they're allowed entrance to the house. He closes the door again as Jason sweeps in, moving with a quiet grace as he sweeps the rooms of the simple house. He stays silent and still by the door until Jason reemerges from the last one, footsteps heavy enough to actually be heard now and the implicit readiness gone from his frame.

"We're clear," Jason says, though his gaze is still flicking about, examining corners. "Bedroom is that way." One thumb is jerked over his shoulder, in the direction of a now open door. "Grab whatever fits decently enough. Probably want to ditch the old clothes too, if you can. I'll take a look around and see if I can find anything valuable enough to buy us a couple meals when we're at the next town."

He scowls. "I do not recall agreeing that you would be the leader between us, Backlash."

"I'm not," is the instant counter, that's quickly followed by a flicker of a snarl. "But I'm the guy who can actually move faster than a walk without folding over in pain, and _I'm_ the one who knows a little something about being hunted. Every second you waste with your ego is a second closer to us getting caught, so suck it up and get moving, Damian. You want to talk technicalities of _pecking_ order? Wait till we're in the desert."

Jason is right, though he despises the fact. Whoever Jason is, or was, it still grates at him to be taking orders like some commoner. Even if he is no longer an al Ghul, he is still royalty, and he has no intention of bowing to the whims of some _backlash_ criminal, no matter how strangely skilled he may be. That will be something he makes perfectly clear as soon as the time exists to do so, but for now he has no other choice. Unless he wishes for both of them to get caught before they've even left the city, he can't dig his heels in and ignore orders that make perfect sense.

"I am not doing this because you _told_ me to," he declares, and stalks past Jason towards the bedroom. There's a snort, but no other comment.

The house apparently belongs to a couple, and he turns away from the hanging dresses — it would be a disguise, certainly, but he has his _pride_ still, if nothing else — and to the dresser belonging to the man. Luckily, the male of the couple seems to be roughly of Jason's size, perhaps even a touch larger, so once he's dug out the smallest set of clothing from within the drawers it ends up fitting him well enough. At least, well enough that it looks like the clothing of someone mildly impoverished, and thus prone to hand-me-downs and not clothing that fits as it should. He doesn't like it, but he acknowledges that it is better than wearing clothes well-fitted enough to look as though he has some degree of wealth.

He will not admit it, but the looseness of the clothing is also a relief. The lack of consistent pressure against his brands is a good thing; he doesn't know if he would have been capable of standing closer fitting clothes for any real length of time.

He emerges from the room, accustoming himself to the feeling of the rougher fabric against his skin, and considering whether he will end up with blisters from the too-loose boots that he wasn't able to replace from this man's supplies. Possibly, but there's little he can do about that. It will hardly be the first time that he's had a blister; he can handle it. Of more concern is the fact that there did not seem to be any cloaks among this man's clothes, and those are an absolute necessity for escaping this city. They're both far too recognizable without them.

"We will have to find cloaks elsewhere," he announces, as he returns to the main room and finds Jason filling a medium sized sack with what looks like food and water. "If these people had any, they left with them for the day."

"That's a pain," Jason says, frowning a bit. "Whatever. Here, pack the rest of this in while I change." He bristles again, and Jason rolls his eyes and then adds, _sickeningly_ sweet and clearly sarcastic, " _Please_."

Jason sweeps past him, and while he _could_ simply stand there and refuse to help, it's not really in his best interest either. So despite his irritation over being ordered around, he moves forward and takes over the job of filling the sack with the pile of items beside it. Food, mostly, as well as several full waterskins and a small sprinkling of items that look somewhat valuable. Nothing that would even be allowed in the palace proper, but perhaps might sell for a couple coins to the right merchant. He sneers at them, but puts them in the sack anyway; Jason probably knows better than him what commoners consider to be 'valuable.'

Jason takes less time than he did, and the clothes fit him significantly better. He's chosen lighter colored ones, almost tan, and he scowls at the choice only because he had none, not with the man being so much wider in the shoulders than him. His clothes are black, which makes him believe that he may be pilfering the commoner's 'finest' clothes, considering the smaller size and impractical color. Black clothing is hardly conducive to the desert outside of these walls. The tan clothing on Jason however, is. It will blend in nicely against the sand too, whereas he will stick out like a sore thumb.

The sleeves on Jason's top are long enough to cover the metal restraints on his upper arms, but the cut of it is too low to hide the one at his throat. He'll still need a cloak for that, or at least some sort of headscarf to serve the same purpose. Most of their people have adopted a style of clothing more along the lines of the Eastern part of the Kingdom, where there are woods and real grass, but enough cling to the older, looser clothing that they may be able to make do with simple scarves as 'protection' against the sand without anyone questioning it. It should hide all they need it to.

"If there is anything of fine enough material in there, we could make scarves instead. They will be simpler than cloaks, and lighter as well."

"Not as good when night comes around," Jason points out, and he narrows his eyes.

"I do not intend on still being out in the sands come night, do you? We can buy or steal cloaks from somewhere when we reach the next town; as _you_ are so insistent on pointing out, we do not have the time to waste on searching for them now. Headscarves will be faster and serve our purpose just as well."

"I'll take a look." Jason turns back around, heading right back into the bedroom, and then calls, "So where are we heading?"

There's the sound of rustling fabric, then _ripping_ fabric, as he decides how much to say. Well, it is not as if Jason's blackmail can get much worse than threatening his mother's life. "To my father," he answers, as he pushes the last of the supplies into the sack and then begins to tie it. "I have nowhere else to go." It's a more painful truth than he was intending to reveal, but it is too late to take the words back now.

"You know where he is?" Jason asks, reappearing with two long pieces of cloth; both a dark brown and of decently fine material. "Pretty sure the leader of a rebellion usually isn't an easy guy to find."

"I know how to find him," he says shortly, meeting Jason's gaze in challenge. There's a moment of silence, and then Jason hands him one of the 'scarves' and shrugs.

"Alright." Jason also seems to know how to tie a headscarf, and he watches for a moment before moving to put on his own. "Once you find him? What happens then?"

He stays silent for another few moments, again considering how much is safe to admit to, before he decides that Jason — although not trustworthy, precisely — has not shown any desire to actually harm him. Yet. Self-serving, certainly, and he's most definitely someone to be wary of given his apparent skill set and knowledge of things he by all rights should not know, but he will hardly get far by shutting out the one ally he currently has in this world. (Though he _bridles_ at the use of the word 'ally;' Jason is irritating and frustrating and he would never have _chosen_ to be allied with him.)

"I will offer the information I possess. I am no longer an al Ghul, and I doubt that I will be allowed to live if I am ever caught again, so the only course of action that makes sense is to join my father's rebellion and attempt to create a world I can once again exist in without being hunted down." He raises his chin a few inches, letting his hands fall away from tying the scarf as he meets Jason's gaze. "The royalty in me does not come solely from my mother's side; I will be a prince again should my father take the empire. That will be good enough."

"Got a bit of ambition there?" Jason mocks, and then snorts. "Alright, fine. Sounds like a plan."

The scarf is pulled down for now, exposing Jason's face from his eyes to just below his mouth, but obscuring everything about him that makes him notable. The folds cover the collar at his throat, as well as the streak of white in his hair. As for him, he has it pulled up over his nose, so just his eyes are visible. His face is known.

Jason's hands fall to the belt he's still wearing, and there's a bit of reluctance as he unbuckles the sheathed sword from the rest of it and carefully sets it on the table. Though he does not enjoy the thought of leaving behind their largest weapon, he sees the reasoning. Two traveling commoners with a knife each is acceptable; a commoner with a sword is something to be wary and suspicious of. Most commoners can't afford swords, let alone swords of the quality that the palace's guards have.

"Let's head out," Jason says, taking the sack and pulling it over one shoulder. He's certain it's heavy, but the weight doesn't seem to bother him at all. "You good?" He dips his head in confirmation, and Jason nods back. "Good. Look, I know you're a prideful little _shit_ , apparently, but if you need to stop just say something, alright?"

He bares his teeth, opens his mouth to say something scathing because he is _hardly_ helpless or useless and he will not allow anyone to think he is. But Jason adds, "They're nasty injuries," before he can, in a quieter voice and with a nearly disturbing level of sincerity. "It's a hell of a thing that you've made it this far, with how fresh those are. Most people couldn't."

He pauses, trying to find the mocking or sarcastic edge to any of it, but he simply cannot. So he asks, "And if I had collapsed in the tunnels? What would have happened then?"

The sack gets shouldered a little more securely, and then Jason says, "I guess you'll never know," and walks past him, nothing in his expression to betray what that's supposed to _mean_.

He follows automatically, even as he tries to understand the strange burst of sincerity and… almost _compassion_ that Jason just displayed. He did not believe that the backlash was capable of either, given his murder of the guards and the ease with which he did it. Compassionate people don't kill as efficiently as Jason did, at least not without showing some sign of it bothering them. Those fools were always weeded out of his grand— Ra's' guards. His former family never had any use for soldiers who might hesitate in their duties.

Jason's pace stays slow enough that he can keep even without too much effort, and it only takes him a few minutes to realize that Jason knows precisely where they're going. There's no hesitation when it comes to the streets he turns down, and all of it leads unerringly towards the closest gate in the city's walls. If they were on more common, thoroughfare roads he wouldn't even have noticed, but there are residential areas and don't have the most intuitive paths to leave them; most people don't know the back neighborhoods of this city unless they live in it or they — like he did — memorized the layout.

"Did you live here?" he asks. "Before you were imprisoned."

"No," is the almost immediate answer. "I was born pretty far East of here, but I traveled a fair amount."

He studies the profile of Jason's face, looking for genetic markers and only able to confirm what the backlash is saying. The pale skin and shape of his eyes says Eastern, not more local like his own tinted skin, and though it's not necessarily uncommon for people to relocate, it isn't his first assumption. 'Traveling,' however, would not be enough to explain Jason's familiarity with the back streets of a city this large.

"You're very familiar with the layout of the city," he points out, studying Jason's expression for any tells. He doesn't get anything.

"Yeah, guess I am."

It drags an irritated click of his tongue from him, and he resists the urge to cross his arms, pulling his gaze away from his infuriatingly mysterious companion and back onto the roads. He has never met someone so utterly _impenetrable_. Jason's personality is easy enough to read, and understand, but the rest of him is irritatingly shrouded in mystery. Intense combat skills — there are not many who can stand up to trained, magic-wielding guards with only physical skill — competent lockpicking, and a seemingly vast store of knowledge he should not possess (his father's identity, the layout of the city, and how to tie a headscarf when he is by admission not local). All things individually explainable, but together…

"Try to look a little less murderous, hm?" He turns his head to look again, and Jason meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow. "We still have to actually get past the guards, and we're not going to if you look like you're contemplating killing everything within a hundred feet. Try and maybe talk to me too? It's going to look weird if we're the only pair on the road not actually speaking to each other."

"And what would you suggest we talk about?" he demands, even as he tries to smooth out his expression some. He has been trained how to behave in front of a court his entire life, surely he can manage to be cool even in the face of one immensely irritating backlash.

"Well, ideally something that people can overhear and not think we're exactly what we are." Jason's tone is dry, but it's true enough. "Make up a story or something."

"Why don't _you_ talk?" he counters, pointedly. "You are the one with your mouth exposed, so it would look better if you were to do most of the talking and I simply commented or answered occasionally. That way it can be seen that we are talking even from a distance."

The look Jason gives him is a little irritated, but it smooths out as they turn a last corner and come out on a main road, where the traffic is immediately heavier and they can blend in with the stream of other people that are leaving the city for the morning. Most will come back when their work is finished for the day, whatever that work may be. Others, like them, are travelers. Both seem to be equally common as far as he can tell, and the clothes they've taken let them nearly disappear in amongst the rest of the commoners. Jason's slightly quicker step puts them directly behind two merchants with horses, and he grudgingly accepts that it's a good call; either the guards will stop the merchants to talk with them and they can slip around during the distraction, or they'll be partially hidden behind the bulk of the horses and less likely to be noticed anyway.

"Alright," Jason says quietly, and then almost immediately starts in louder, halfway through a sentence as if it's an interrupted conversation, not the start of one. "And so this kid, this kid comes _crashing_ through the damn bush and—"

He _barely_ resists whipping his head around to stare at his companion, because Jason's voice has slipped into an almost _perfect_ mimicry of a local accent. It's close enough that the syllables that aren't quite right are easily explained away by his foreign features, but place him firmly as having lived somewhere local for a long time. He forces his shock not to show, keeping his gaze mostly forwards and offering appropriate noises or comments when spaces in the story Jason is telling offer the chance. Accent mimicry; another skill he's going to have to add to the list of strange things his companion knows how to do.

Assassin, or _spy_ , maybe? It seems like a backlash would be a poor choice to train as either of those things, but then again… maybe not. Backlashes rarely stay in one place for long; most towns won't accept one living within their borders for any lengthy period of time. So a backlash would have cause to constantly travel, to wear clothes that would hide their features, and to carry weaponry, all of which are things that spies or assassins would regularly do as well. It's an interesting theory, anyway, even if he is entirely off the mark.

For now, he should simply accept that Jason's skills are useful, and let go of trying to figure out where they come from. He has bigger concerns than the origin of his mystery companion.

He has to fight not to hold his breath as they approach the gate itself, and the guards to either side that are watching the flow of people, but Jason never falters. He doesn't even pay the guards any mind, and he finds himself looking at Jason instead of them, watching the way he speaks and smirks and gestures with the hand not holding the sack over his shoulder. It's fascinating, and it keeps him distracted long enough that when he looks away again, suddenly they're out from underneath the gate, with the desert stretching out before them along with the ground-down path of the main road itself. He blinks, somewhat startled, and Jason takes his arm, pushing him gently towards the outside of the road.

"Traveling commoners walk on the side," Jason says, breaking out of the accent as easily as he slipped into it. "Horses, carts, and nobles get the middle. Remember, let me know if you need to stop for a bit."

"I will not need to stop," he snaps, and then glances around to see if anyone else is close enough to have heard. They aren't. The merchants have pulled away, and the rest of the people around them seem to have all naturally fallen into their own pairs or groups with plenty of space between them.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather stop than have you fall over on me; it'll call less attention." Jason reaches up, pulling the scarf up to hook over his nose, so only those blue-green eyes are visible behind the wrap. "We're not going to make the next town before they realize we're gone, but if we're lucky they'll lock the city down to search it and not send riders out until they're fairly sure you've fled the city."

"We'll need to contend with trackers," he points out. "The royal family employs the best in the kingdom to hunt those it needs to, and—"

"Not going to be a problem," Jason interrupts, and he glances up sharply. Jason shrugs. "I'm bound, and you're sealed. We're not leaving any magical traces to track. They'll have to pull out physical tracking methods to find us, and usually those take longer and are less effective."

"You have experience being hunted?" he asks, and Jason's eyes flare with something like anger as they look down at him.

"What do _you_ think?"

He considers answering, considers rising to the challenge of Jason's tone, but ultimately decides not to. Instead he scowls back, scoffs, and increases his pace a touch to draw away from his 'ally.'

The pain it costs him is entirely worth it.


End file.
